


rites of passage

by ohtempora



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 16:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15393267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: “Happy birthday, bud,” Dylan says, handing over the champagne. Zach pops the cork, watches it ricochet off the ceiling, takes a swig from the bottle, and that's when his brother smashes cake into his face.After that, the night is more or less a blur.





	rites of passage

**Author's Note:**

> quick fluff, written because I'm very stuck in transit atm. hbd to zach werenski while we're at it.

"You did it," Dylan says, pink-cheeked and solemn. "You made it to 21, Z. We didn't know if it would happen."   
  
He's standing in Zach's living room, holding a bottle of champagne that looks too expensive and wearing a semi-transparent navy blue shirt that fits too well. Zach's heart does the same little flip it's been doing for the last 11 years.   


God, 11 years. Officially over half his life. Him and Dylan, side by side, over a decade since midget hockey and the decision they'd made, that one otherwise unmemorable day, to be friends.

"You were actively working against me," Zach says. "You kept making me drink Everclear in college. I could have died before I ever made the NHL.”

  
"It was mixed with Kool-Aid!" Dylan says. Like that helps.    
  
They have a party bus booked and bottle service at a club, the whole shebang. Zach's excited for all of it, can't wait to celebrate, but he's also excited that he won't have to rely in Cam's good graces and love of bribes to get beer during the season anymore. 

“Happy birthday, bud,” Dylan says, handing over the champagne. Zach pops the cork, watches it ricochet off the ceiling, takes a swig from the bottle, and that's when his brother smashes cake into his face.

After that, the night is more or less a blur.

He remembers bits and pieces of it later, lying in bed with a pounding headache: The sparkler on the bottle of vodka they order, a smoky tequila shot, taking drunk selfies on the party bus that end up half-blurred. Looking at them later, everyone's faces squished together, flushed and smiling—Zach should probably delete them, but he doesn't.

There's one more memory he can fish out. The DJ put on Rihanna and Dylan climbed into his lap, one knee on either side of his thighs.  _ I want that cake, cake, cake _ and Dylan circling his hips, gyrating while the rest of the guys whooped and cheered, Zach clenching his hands into fists so he didn't give into temptation and run his hands up and down Dylan’s sides.

Speaking of Dylan—

Dylan came home with him last night. Zach remembers Dylan dozing on his shoulder in the cab, but he's not snoring in Zach's bed like he usually does after a night of drinking.

There's a soft snuffling noise coming from the floor, though, and Zach pulls himself together enough to peer over the side of them. Dylan's lying there, one arm thrown over his head so that his stupid transparent shirt is riding up, exposing a strip of tanned stomach along the waistband of his pants.

“Larks,” Zach says, and Dylan stirs, mumbling something inaudible. “Dylan,” he tries, louder, and Dylan sits up, wincing.

“My back,” he says. “Fuck. My  _ head.” _

“Come up here,” Zach says, and offers him a hand. Dylan takes it, hauling himself up enough to collapse onto the mattress.

“Hi,” he says, a little bit to Zach but mostly to the pillow. 

“Good morning to you too,” Zach says. Dylan's already back asleep.

Probably a good idea, Zach thinks. He shifts away from Dylan's warm body and closes his eyes too.

When he wakes up again it's well past noon, sun spilling through the blinds into his bedroom. He's thirsty and cotton-mouthed, but overall he wants to die from his hangover way less. It's an improvement.

Dylan is awake too, curls wild, eyes dark. He says, “I know your birthday is over, but—”

“But what,” Zach says, and then Dylan leans over and kisses him. 

His mouth is soft and his stubble scratches against Zach's chin and it tastes  _ awful _ , god, like stale tequila and cheap orange juice. Objectively it's everything Zach has wanted for years and years.

“Happy birthday,” Dylan says when they finally break apart. He's looking Zach right in the eye and Zach searches his face for any sign that this is anything less than sincere. 

He doesn't see it. He just sees Dylan.

“You can—” Dylan's teeth dig into his lower lip. Zach watches the way his mouth reddens. “Uh. Was that— Z, can you say something?”

“You could have brushed your teeth first,” Zach says finally, words falling past his lips he doesn't quite have control over. But it's Dylan, who knows him better than almost anyone else on the planet, and Dylan bursts out laughing.

“You're right,” he says. “Inconsiderate of me, really. But other than that—”

Zach doesn't want to subject himself to Dylan's alcoholic morning breath again, but he curves his hand around Dylan's cheek, presses his lips to Dylan's temple. 

“Okay,” Dylan says. He's smiling. “Good.”

They stumble into the bathroom to brush teeth, assess. Zach stares into the mirror. His eyes are pretty bloodshot. Dylan's are too, with the added bonus of needing to shave in the worst way. Dylan nudges him, mouth full of toothpaste, and says, “Wanna lie back down?”

“Yeah,” Zach says, and rinses, spits.

They're lying closer together when they get back in Zach's bed, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. Zach thinks about sleeping more but he doesn't want to, really. 

“Is that why you did the whole dance thing?” he asks. “Last night, at the club?”

“The lap dance?” Dylan laughs. “I mean, mostly I just wanted to.” He hooks his ankle around Zach's. “I thought it would be funny but then I saw your face.”

Zach swallows.

“Then it wasn't funny,” Dylan says. The corner of his mouth tilts up. “I'm still so fucking hungover but I wanna kiss you again?” 

That shouldn't be a question, Zach thinks, and he nods, lets Dylan shift until he's half on top of Zach, until they're chest to chest, mouths pressed together, kissing and kissing. He touches low on Dylan's back, rucks up his shirt, gets his hand on uncovered skin. Dylan shudders against him delightfully. “ _ Z,” _ he says, and drags his lips over Zach's jaw, kisses his neck.

“Can we get dinner tonight?” Zach asks. He pushes Dylan's shirt up further, towards his ribs. Dylan is so warm. “Like, you and me?”

“We were gonna do that anyway.” Dylan seems to be kissing his way towards Zach's chest. His mouth moves against the thin skin of Zach's neck, shiver-inducing. 

“You and me like a date,” Zach says. He adds, “and for the record, I asked you first.”

“I kissed you first!” Dylan protests. When he looks up he's smiling, eyes bright and creased up. “And that's a yes. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Zach echoes, inching his hand past Dylan's waistband. “Of course.”

“I'm okay if we stay in better a little longer, though,” Dylan says, head dipping back down, and yeah, Zach doesn't see any problems with this birthday gift at all. 

* * *

 


End file.
